


The Night of the Boat Race

by elma_macbetsy



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Boat Race Night, Drunk Bertie, Gen, policeman's helmet stealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:28:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elma_macbetsy/pseuds/elma_macbetsy
Summary: Reposting from old FF account.How did Bertie come to steal a policeman's helmet?Written based on the Jeeves and Wooster TV show, before I read about the actual events of the boat race in the books.





	

The night in question, I had just been removed, rather forcibly I might add, from some club or another by its owner, after what I _think_ was an enjoyable evening. No, wait; I’ve come in too late. I should, perhaps, begin with the events that lead up to said removal. It was boat-race night. Beyond that…well, the exact circs escape me; I do seem to recall Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps having something to do with it, though, as well as several other Johnnies. 

After narrowly avoiding going headfirst into a lamppost, I attempted to regain my dignity (meaning, in this instance, my balance). A black dinner jacket was hanging limply from my hand at this point, so, deducing that the bally thing was the same one I’d stripped off earlier, I tried to put it back on – dashed difficult when one’s arms won’t cooperate. After three separate efforts had all ended with the jacket being worn somewhat unconventionally – back to front, upside down and so forth – I folded the item over my shoulder and tottered off in what I believed to be a homewards direction.

A few moments later, I can say with certainty that two things happened. First, the light from the streetlamps started to give me the pip, so I pulled my hat down as far as I could over my eyes. Second, something appeared in front of me that I ascertained to be rather solid when I staggered into it. I blinked, dazed, and set the bean to work stopping the buildings from spinning about me.

“Hey!”

I tried to get my bearings again, figure out which way I was headed and all that. 

“Hey! That was an assault on a police constable!” Well, fancy that! I thought. What a frightful thing to do, assaulting a policeman. I believe I made some effort to say something or other to that end. Blasted thing was, what came out was so slurred that for all I know I could have offered to post the man’s uniform to China.

“That’s right. I’m talking to you.” There was an aggravated sounding sigh. “Another drunk toff. Just what I need.” A hand – or more or less of a similar appendage – grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, making my stomach lurch quite horribly. 

“When a member of the police constabulary is cautioning you, you look at him!” The fellow seemed dashed upset about something. I made some enquiry as to what, but was no more successful than I had been previously – perhaps now my postage offer had switched to Cuba?

“What are you trying to hide?” Before I had a chance to consider the question, I became very aware of a sudden draft somewhere in the area of my head. It soon became apparent, even to me, and even though I was rather far under the sauce, that this was because the chappie had lifted my hat! Quite literally, as a matter of fact. 

Rum, I remember thinking, for one fellow to take another fellow’s headgear like that. And I was left with quite the difficulty. I mean, a chap can’t just toddle around London without a hat, what? Clearly someone, somewhere, had made a mistake, and we’d be able to get it all sorted out in the morning. In the mean time, I reasoned, this gentleman would want to do the decent thing and lend me his, at least for the journey home. 

So I reached out and lifted _his_ hat – and what a hat it was! It wasn’t of a style that I recognised, not that anyone would call Bertram Wooster an expert on the subject, self included. Well, I supposed, that must be part of the whole thing of hat-swapping: to branch out and experience new fashions. I wondered if any Drones were familiar with the procedure…

“Hey! You can’t pinch a policeman’s helmet!” An unexpected moment of clarity told me that I had made a pretty serious error, and that the man – the _policeman_ – was at that very moment reaching for his truncheon with what I assumed to be violent intentions. Well! I did what any reasonable chap would do – I biffed off. Fast. 

This proved only a few moments later to be another pretty serious error. I was somewhat lacking my usual coordination, so I shouldn’t really have been surprised when I suddenly found myself saying ‘what ho!’ to the pavement. _Hard_. I groaned – and I took some pride in the fact that at least that noise came out pretty much as intended – and attempted to persuade all the relevant attachments – fingers, toes and so on – that standing up was a fine idea. And if leaving pretty dashed quickly should follow on from that… But said r.a. didn’t seem to be in the mood. ‘Come on, chaps!’ I thought at them, ‘You know the drill!’ But my rallying made no difference. 

I supposed I hadn’t really gotten off to a great start with the pavement, what with the landing face-first on it and all. And I recognised that I’d been a bit short with it right after. You know: ‘it’s been fun, but really must dash, we’ll have dinner sometime’. That sort of thing. But, I reasoned as my eyes started to fall shut, maybe it wasn’t too late to make amends. Maybe we could be real pals after all…

Of course, that thought was torn to shreds as my arms were jerked behind my back and held there by something cold. So cold, in fact, that I must confess a rather undignified squeak came from the lips of one B.W.W. 

“You’re nicked!” I tried to formulate the sequence of events that had lead to those words, but found it too difficult whilst simultaneously being pulled upwards by my arms. I stumbled while I tried to remember exactly how feet were supposed to work. “I said, ‘you’re nicked’!” 

Oh. Yes. The hat. The assault. I was being arrested. Of course, I tried to object. The indignant choked sound must have had an impact, because the next time – or rather, the first time – I looked at him, his features seemed to have softened and he appeared to be looking on me somewhat kindly. At least, I think he was. It was difficult to say with his face swimming all over the place. It reminded me a bit of one time when I was a kid, and my aunt Agatha had once tried to look on me kindly. Needless to say, neither the aunt A. nor the police C. was particularly talented in that area. 

“Look, I’ll drop the assault charge. It was just a bump, after all. These things happen.” And then he added in a quieter voice. “’Specially when you’re as tight as you are…” Then his face once again hardened and he reached down, out of my eye line, and returned clutching two hats. “But there is never an excuse to steal a policeman’s helmet. That’s a very serious charge, that is.” He placed one of the hats on his head, the other under his arm, and proceeded to haul me off. “You’re coming with me.”

That was all very well and good, I remember thinking, but he wasn’t the one who’d have to explain this to my Aunt Agatha!


End file.
